St Elizabeth of Hungary
by constantlearner
Summary: Chapter1:July 1944. Operation Outwards is nearing its end. Nancy Walker, in Felixstowe, thinks about events three weeks before, in London. Chapter 2: March 1945. Bridget Walker reads a telegram not addressed to her and makes a decision.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

She had another hour before she was on duty. They had only ever released the balloons when the wind was off-shore and likely to remain so. Today was likely to be quiet. There had been plenty of favourable conditions in which they had been told to halt releases; it wouldn't do for allied aircraft to become entangled in the balloons so enthusiastically released, and armed with trailing wires or incendiary devices, by the 140 Wrens stationed at Felixstowe.

Most of those 140 had still been young enough to enjoy writing rude messages to Hitler on the balloons before they were released. The messages had been quite mild, although Nancy had to admit that at 18 she might have thought them quite daring. Now, at 27, she had heard much worse. Once, she had calmly taken the brush and the tin of black paint from a nineteen year-old who clearly considered herself the live-wire of the group, painted something much more forceful on the side of the balloon, handed the brush and bucket back again and walked off to oversee the filling of the balloons with hydrogen.

Now the operation had been scaled down considerably, and the live-wire (who had afterwards treated Nancy with increased respect) and many others of that group had been posted elsewhere. Since the landings in June there was a definite feeling that peace could not be that far off. The Wrens had been disbanded after the last war. Nancy wondered if the same would happen after this one. She had been married for nearly five years; for all but a week of that time the country had been at war. She hadn't really had a chance to find out what sort of person a peacetime Mrs John Walker would be. She already had a pretty good idea she would be doing – at least in the immediate future.

Perhaps she hadn't needed to get up an hour earlier in order to appear at breakfast without obvious queasiness. Still, it was no hardship on a fine July morning.

Thinking about breakfast had been a mistake.

The experience of the last couple of days suggested to Nancy that she had better stay where she was for a little while. They were billeted in a convalescent home, which meant that the bathrooms were fairly good. She perched on the edge of the bath, smiling, and remembered.

Her train had got into Liverpool Street well before his train from Liverpool was due in, but she had hurried across to Euston anyway, not minding the long wait on the platform when she got there. She had seen him first as the overcrowded train disgorged its passengers. They had stood there, not speaking, just holding each other while the flood of humanity parted, flowed around them, and joined up again like a river flowing around the pier of a bridge. When they were sufficiently convinced that they were both really here and had said the most important things, they had gathered up their bags and, showing their travel warrants to the ticket inspector, gone to Aunt Helen's house.

When Aunt Helen had written to Nancy, she had made a point of saying that she would not be off-duty until the next morning and had made up her bed for them, moving herself into the little spare room. Nancy suspected that losing her friend Lillian had made it painful for Aunt Helen to see John and her together. That made her hospitality even more generous.

John had taken their bags upstairs while Nancy had made a pot of tea, and they had sat, both still in uniform, talking and holding hands in the late afternoon sunlight at the kitchen table.

Nancy wished she had not thought about drinking tea. She gave in to the nausea, glad she had stayed put.

John had asked the same question twice, and then laughed and admitted that he had only asked it for the pleasure of hearing her voice, when Nancy heard the air-raid siren. John had looked at her, questioning.

"They've only recently started." she had said, "since the landings. Aunt Helen's got a Morrison shelter in the other room."

As they settled themselves in the shelter with the wire sides in place, John had remarked that it was like being in a cage at the zoo.

"Now, I know how Gibber must have felt."

"Aunt Helen said it's the best thing she ever bought. She likes using it as a big table and for weeks, in the Blitz, this was where they slept."

Those would have been weeks with precious little sleep for either Lillian or Aunt Helen, and the memories of horrors seen when they did close their eyes.

"So," John had said, nodding towards the window with curtains and black-out curtains already drawn across, "tell me about this."

She had explained about the "pilotless planes". "Only they aren't really. More sort of self-propelled bombs. Some people call them buzz bombs or doodle-bugs. They make a distinctive sound – and they travel quite fast. When they stop, that's when they start coming down. So if the noise just fades out in the distance ….."

He had been taking her hair down from its tidy bun, lining up the precious pre-war hairpins in a precise row at the edge of the Morrison shelter. His fingers were gentle on her neck and his breath was fast and soft against her cheek.

"If they fade into the distance …" he had prompted in a very low murmur, deliciously close to her ear. She had known he was enjoying her inability to concentrate on what she was saying.

"Then it isn't you – this time. It's when you can still hear them and they cut out suddenly they say you should start to worry."

"And if you can't hear them at all?"

"Then you've got time for other things." she had said.

She had still been wearing a few clothes when she had started to wriggle free from his arms. They had heard some of the bombs pass over and fade out in the distance. His arm around her waist stopped her.

"In my suitcase, which is upstairs …." she had begun.

He had nodded understanding, but not agreement.

"It's not worth the risk." he had said, pulling her back down into a close, fierce embrace. "I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you." And then, in a lighter tone, he had said, "I'm sure we can find other ways to amuse each other."

And they had, but….. It would only have taken the slightest of words from her, the smallest of reminders, but she had simply not wanted to remember, had not said anything. Afterwards, lying with her head on his shoulder in the sticky June evening, with the closed windows making the room too hot for clothes or covers, he had apologised and she had said,

"Probably once doesn't really matter. Anyway, it was just as much both of us."

They had slept then, although she had tried to stay awake for a little while to watch him sleep. It had been dark when they woke, and they had been cold where they were not touching each other. They had not been able hear any more of the buzz bombs, so they had gathered together the various piece of clothing and slipped upstairs, giggling.

He had unfastened her bag for her, found and handed her the little round box.

She had laughed. "It doesn't work afterwards. The nice lady doctor at the clinic made that quite clear!"

"I know."

And she had seen the look in his eyes and wondered how it had ever taken her so long to work out what it had meant in that long ago and far off time called "before the war". When she came back from the bathroom, they had not gone to back to sleep straight away.

That wonderful week together was a fortnight ago. He was back on his destroyer, somewhere in the Atlantic. Her stomach seemed a bit calmer now. She began to clean her teeth.

She had spent far too much of her life living with other young women to draw any definite conclusions from being a few days, or even a week late, but she had been sick three days in a row. Things tasted strange; smelt strange. She would delay filling in a POR for as long as possible. Since the landings, it had been obvious that Operation Outwards would soon come to an end. Maybe they had another month. She could delay for that long.

"Besides," she said softly but aloud to the otherwise empty room, still smiling. "No-one but your Daddy's going to hear about you first. I'll write to him today."

* * *

_My darling Nancy, _

_If you could see me writing this with a big grin on my face, you wouldn't need to ask how I felt. We always did say "someday" and "after the war". It seems to me there is a fair chance that the end of the war will arrive before our son or daughter. After all, we were both wartime babies and so were Susan and Peggy, and we've all turned out OK. Of course I mind not being with you, and of course I mind that things will be more difficult for you because of the war and of course I'll worry about you. But none of those are anything for __you__ to worry about. And I was worrying about whatever-it-is that caused the singed eyebrows and the wire cuts anyway. I'm sure you are right about Beckfoot being the best and safest place for you in a few months time…._


	2. Chapter 2

**St. Elizabeth of Hungary-Chapter two**

Bridget Walker dawdled on her way home after afternoon milking. Being a "Boomerang" evacuee was not usually a problem, to her mind. Today, she had rather not be back at Beckfoot again. Elspeth had called her a Boomerang evacuee, partly because her mother was Australian, but mainly because she had come back. Elspeth must have used it in a letter to Alf, too. Alf had liked it and, proud of Elspeth's cleverness, had shared the joke until it had taken on a life of its own and gone all around the shores of the Lake.

The first time had been fun. The first time, she and Elspeth and Colin had sailed and explored and fished and met Alf who was also evacuated. Elspeth and Bridget had been sent to a girls' school which had been evacuated to a large house at the head of the lake. The work had been easier than either of them was used to. Bridget had nearly agreed with Colin when he said "I'm enjoying this war – so far."

Nearly. Once, on a Saturday morning, when Peggy was still working at the post office, Bridget had found Mrs Blackett putting Nancy's wedding dress away in a cupboard, crying. Bridget had spoken about it to Peggy that afternoon.

"It not as if Nancy is in any actual danger, is she?" Bridget had asked.

"Not in the way you mean." Peggy had replied.

"What other way is there?"

"She'll worry about John."

"So do I." Though, really, there had been plenty of days when Bridget hadn't worried. She had thought about John, of course, and about Daddy, but mostly she just assumed they would be alright, because they always were.

Peggy had looked carefully at her face, seen the lack of understanding and tried to explain further.

"Even if nothing bad happens to John and it probably won't, Nancy must be living with the fear of it every day. Mother knows how that feels."

Bridget still hadn't thought she really understood.

"Nancy and you have known John for as long as I have. You can't really know a person before you're two. Not properly." She had offered. Peggy had hugged her then.

"I'm not sure you really understand, but then I'm not sure I do." Peggy had said.

That had been before Peggy had joined up, when the war had still been mostly phoney. It had never been phoney in the Atlantic. Bridget wished she still did not understand.

At first, she had been glad when Nancy had returned, that autumn after the landings in Normandy, when it looked as though the end might really be in sight. Bridget had been finding things rather dull living at Beckfoot and going up to Low Farm to work every day. She missed Elspeth, but the buzz bombs and the rockets that struck so swiftly that you never heard them coming did not reach Glasgow. Anyway, they were both too old to be evacuees that second time round, despite what Elspeth called her. Bridget liked animals and being out of doors. Higher cert. could wait until "afterwards". Bridget was looking forward to being an aunt. Things were never boring with Nancy around. Twice, Nancy had taken her bow out very early and returned with a duck.

"I expect they'll taste just as good with apples as they would with orange." Nancy had said.

Nancy had taken over the tedious business of shopping, too. Her green ration book gave her priority in queues. She had also managed to find, in a sale in aid of something or other, a pile of books for Bridget, including "The Abbey Girls Win Through". Bridget's brothers laughed at her liking for Elsie Oxenham books and Susan viewed it with impatience. The New Year had come and gone. Nancy shot no more duck. Even the two smocks Mrs Blackett had made from a tablecloth had grown tight. Underneath the smocks, Nancy had had to open the other side seam on her skirt.

The last month had been grim. Bridget supposed that she should be grateful, working outdoors as she did, that the spring so far at least had been mild. She leant against the bridge; she wanted to delay returning to Beckfoot as long as possible.

It wasn't that Nancy had complained, or worried aloud, or been snappy or moped visibly. She had done none of these things. Nancy, cheerful, could lift other people's gloom just by being there. The opposite was also true. Nancy was unhappy and anxious. They had not heard from John for much longer than usual. Nancy was pale and put on a smile that did not reach her eyes and otherwise carried on as normal. It was Mrs Blackett who became unable to settle to anything. Mrs. Braithwaite's mouth settled in a grim line not entirely due to the arthritis in her hands. It was Bridget who became short-tempered and snappy.

And this morning…

Bridget, ashamed of herself, had to resist the urge to kick at the stonework of the bridge with her precious, irreplaceable boots. It had been just before five o'clock. Bridget had been in the kitchen, putting her boots on. Nancy, on her hands and knees, had been scrubbing the floor. (Why that early? And why the floor? It couldn't have been that dirty. It had been washed yesterday.)

Bridget, at the door, had turned back and said, "You're not fooling anyone you know, Nancy. The brave face is just making everyone feel worse."

Nancy had let go of the scrubbing brush and started the now not-very-speedy process of getting to her feet.

"I know it's rotten for you too, Bridgie,"she had started to say.

Bridget felt she could not bear to hear the rest, banged the back door behind her in her haste to be gone and peddled off to Low Farm on Peggy's bicycle.

She supposed she really should get back. She should apologise to Nancy. She should continue knitting a pair of little leggings from a carefully unravelled summer cardigan that used be Mrs Blackett's best one. Bridget hadn't managed to turn the heels properly. Susan would have managed without any problem. Still, Bridget supposed she had better get on with it. It was already the second week of March and she still had half a leg to finish.

Still looking for an excuse not to go back, she took a final look around and caught sight of Alf, cycling towards her from the head of the lake. She waited for him to catch up. Half the Lake thought she was walking out with solid, sensible Alf and the other half thought it would be a good idea. Bridget knew that Alf's heart was given to clever, complicated, quicksilver Elspeth. She had mentioned the matter to Susan last summer. Susan had spent a week's leave at Beckfoot.

"Elspeth is quite a lot cleverer than Alf. Much cleverer than I am too." Bridget said.

"Clever enough to make herself miserable over some plausible bad lot who swears he can't live without her?" Susan had said caustically.

Bridget could not deny it, but, a confidence being a confidence, could not admit it either. Her silence was enough for Susan, whose expression settled into a worried pinched look. Bridget wondered why Susan should mind so much about Elspeth, whom she had scarcely met.

She could see Alf's face was grim as he approached. He did not smile in greeting as he slowed down. Alf was working at the post office until he was old enough to be called up. He had only a few more months to wait. Seeing his expression, Bridget felt a freezing fog of fear seep into her brain. His words only confirmed it.

"Oh, Bridget, I'm so very, very sorry."

"A telegram."

He nodded silently and held it out. For one moment she wildly hoped it was Peggy, or Captain Flint or anybody but… It wasn't addressed to her. She read it anyway. John.

Alf had silently propped up his bicycle next to hers and put a hand rather awkwardly on her shoulder before hugging her. He had lost both parents and his older brother in one raid. He knew how useless words could be.

After she-didn't-know how long, Bridget raised her head.

"I can't cry."

"Yet." he replied. She could hear there were tears somewhere in his voice.

"I suppose I should go and."

He nodded.

"Do you want me to come with you? I suppose I should really, anyway. I mean, whoever you were, not just because we're friends."

She shook her head.

"Bridget? Maybe you should tell Mrs Blackett and let her tell Mrs Walker? I mean, I don't know anything about babies and things, but.."

"In this book, I was reading," said Bridget slowly, "there was a woman who was expecting twins. And she had a telegram asking to her to confirm whether her husband had been killed in Africa somewhere. And she didn't know about it and had a terrible shock."

"What happened?"

"Well, she was very ill. She survived and the babies survived in the end, but they made it sound like it was a frightfully close thing."

"Maybe they made it sound worse than it was to be more dramatic. Or maybe it's only with twins"

"Or better than it would be, because it was a book for schoolgirls."

"Mrs Blackett will know what's best."

They stood there silently.

Eventually Alf said again, "I'll come with you if I want, but you have to go back to Beckfoot now."

Bridget nodded and got on her bicycle.

"I'll come and see you on Saturday." he said, "You can always tell me to go away again if you don't want to see me."

"Thank you."

She was taking off her boots by the back door when Mrs Braithwaite stuck her head out of the back door.

"It's you. I'd hoped you were the midwife back again."

"The midwife?"

"Yes, there's a woman at the head of the lake having a tough time of it. Poor midwife's cycled here and back twice already today. It started not long after you left. Miss Nancy taking it into her head to scrub the floor like that was a fair sign, but you weren't to know. Her mother had all the curtains down upstairs and nowt would do but that she must wash them herself when Miss Nancy was just about to arrive."

Bridget was inside by now. Mrs Braithwaite looked at her closely.

"Is there owt amiss with you? You're as white as a sheet."

"Nothing, I'm fine." Bridget lied, but faintly. She was sure she did not sound convincing. Impossible to tell anyone just now. "I didn't realise – does it normally take this long?"

"With the first. Miss Peggy came quick enough. Too quick for the mid-wife and never owt amiss with her. Midwife says there'll be no problems, like as not, and everything straight forward. You've no call to be looking so worried. Sit down by the stove a bit and warm up."

However much Mrs Braithwaite might try to treat Nancy and Peggy equally and say "Go on with you" to either of them when hugged, Bridget had a pretty good idea who was Cook's favourite. If Mrs Braithwaite really didn't think there was anything to worry about, it would be alright. Except that it never would be.

She couldn't possibly tell anyone tonight. It would be cruel to tell Mrs Blackett and expect her to keep it from Nancy. She probably couldn't anyway. Nancy was sometimes, like Susan, uncomfortably perceptive. The only thing to do was to tell no-one, until it was time to tell Nancy. Bridget had to get through one night. Just one night. If she kept thinking about anything, anyone but John, she could manage it, couldn't she?

Perhaps she had gone pale again, because Mrs Braithwaite said, "You bide quiet there until I get your bite of supper. I'll see if owt's wanted first though."

Through the open kitchen door she heard Mrs Lewthwaite's voice, "Walk up and down the landing a bit, love."

Mrs. Blackett's voice, quieter, saying something Bridget couldn't hear.

"Oh stop fussing, Mother," Nancy's voice, cheerful and clear, "She knows what she's doing. It's what the mid-wife said anyhow." The last word trailed off somewhat breathlessly. Mrs Braithwaite closed the kitchen door behind her.

A minute or so later she returned, Nancy's voice floating after her.

"Well don't drink the wretched stuff where I can smell it. I don't want to be sick just now."

Bridget didn't know how she got through the rest of the afternoon and evening. She made cups of tea, washed up, peeled potatoes and chopped vegetables. Cook made soup. Bridget did the fiddly things for Cook, whose hands had got worse as the spring had progressed, heated water as required and, as often as she was unobserved, put her hand into the pocket of her breeches always hoping the dreadful telegram was not real. It was always there.

Eventually (Bridget looked at the clock to check, it was nearly eight – not so late really), Mrs Lewthwaite came in to announce that the baby was a girl and quite healthy, that Nancy was fine and asking for a cup of tea and that a bucket was required.

"You take the bucket." Bridget told Mrs Braithwaite, "I'll make her the tea."

Alone, in the kitchen, Bridget filled the kettle again and put it on the stove. She heard a noise by the backdoor, like someone trying to take their boots off. The midwife, surely. She went to open the door.

"John?"

She reached out a hand to check he was real, before flinging her arms round him and burying her head on his shoulder.

"Yes, Bridgie, it's me and I pleased to see you too, but can you let me in? It's raining quite heavily out here and I've had to walk from the head of the lake. I tried to 'phone but couldn't get thorough. I'm on survivor's leave."

It was raining. She hadn't noticed.

She stepped back to let him in, such a lump in her throat that she couldn't speak.

"Where's Nancy? Where's everybody else? Is Nancy OK?" John demanded.

Bridget swallowed and found enough voice to say, "She's fine. She's upstairs. The baby's fine. She's a girl."

Coat, hat and muddy boots landed on the floor. John was running up the stairs.

It was about an hour later when he came downstairs again. Mrs Lewthwaite had gone home, fetched by Sammy with a lantern. The midwife had still not arrived. Mrs Blackett and Mrs Braithwaite were upstairs, making up another bed. Bridget jumped up from the chair by the fire.

"She's beautiful." John said, smiling.

"John," Bridget fumbled in her pocket, pulled out the telegram, showed it to John. "This came. I met Alf coming along and made him give it to me. I couldn't tell her. Not then."

John read it then read it again.

"Poor Bridgie." was all he said and hugged her.

Bridget found she was crying. And, however unlike him it seemed, so was John.

**Author's notes:**

However unlikely this seems, it was the sort of thing that did happen. (At least if the Army made that type of mistake occasionally, I'm sure the Navy could as well.) My great-grandparents received a telegram regretfully informing them that their youngest son was dead, when he was sitting at the breakfast table right opposite them on the first day of his leave. No-one knows why. It was considered by the family to be the sort of thing that **would** happen to Great-uncle Tom.

Elspeth and Alf are my characters. All the others belong to Arthur Ransome.

No disrespect to the works Elsie Oxenham is intended. I enjoy them too. They can be curiously addictive.

If you want to know why this story has this title, may I suggest you try the story of the same name in C.S. Forester's book "Hornblower in the West Indies".

I can heartily recommend the other Hornblower stories too.


End file.
